Hardest to Love

by Sidney Ivens

  I knew it was coming, but it still feels like a racquetball serve at the back of my head. But the other news. A daughter. Cos used to sleep off hangovers under a pile of dirty laundry, and he’s having a kid? “Well, there goes the gender reveal party.” I turn to leave. “I won’t be invited to that, either.”

  Cos calls out. “Nicky. Don’t be this way.” The goofy sweater falls down his shoulder as he trots down the sidewalk. “I’m sorry. I should’ve asked you in. C’mon. We’re just getting started on desserts.”

  “Go stir your damn grog,” I call over my shoulder, breath fogging in the cold air.

  “It doesn’t work anymore.”

  I turn back to face him.

  “The bar scene. I can’t do it anymore. And it’s not her.” He nods toward the front door, a reference to his wife. “It’s me. I’ve changed.”

  “Yeah. You wear stupid sweaters around your neck.”

  He scrubs a hand over his face. “I love you, bro, but you’re the party guy. You do Vegas and showrooms. You don’t settle on one girl, you collect a stable. You’re a machine, great at the panoramic shot. You’re not the cozy fireplace guy.”

  I tap my fingers against my forehead in a brief salute. “Better to be a Ken doll. Got it.”

  “Screw you, Nick.”

  That stings more than I let on. Shivering, I return to my parked Aston. The leather seat is stiff and cold as I slide into it. I turn on the ignition, loving how the engine rumbles. I shift gears and roar away, the car hugging the curb on a tight turn. Fine. Cozy fireplace guys don’t drive cars like this. But we machines get pussy with cars like this.

  Okay, okay. Let’s get some perspective here. DeVille will call back. The dream’s just hitting some speed bumps. As for the snuggly brunch bunch, forget Cos and his Bride of Bitchenstein. I wouldn’t fit in if I were married to a supermodel who waddled in there carrying triplets.

  A squirrel skitters across the street, and I slam on the brakes. My effin’ chin almost welds to the steering wheel. Never stop for some stupid animal on the road, you’ll wreck the car. That’s what Dad would say. Run the thing over. Darwinism.

  But no, the squirrel was Bambi’s friend, so I stopped.

  Suddenly I’m rip-roaring pissed at Elena. This bad vibe started with her. She was some kind of curse, her and her wire monkeys, those linebacker-sized sweaters and her ugly Dutch shoes.

  Telling me I didn’t have a heart. Freakin’ gall.

  I have heart muscle galore, honey.

  I’ll prove it, too.

  “We always make too much.” Aunt Robbie wiped her hands on her apron and shifted to the left so Elena could check on the turkey.

  Steam rising in her face, Elena brushed back her bangs with her hand, determined to keep her mind from wandering to Nick Zaccardi and his attempted seduction swindle and the pending real-estate deal.

  Stirring the gravy helped. She whisked like there was no tomorrow.

  Meanwhile, her aunt bent over and opened the small buffet, withdrawing the Thanksgiving tablecloth, their annual ritual. She flapped it open onto the kitchen table and adjusted the hem on the sides.

  Elena smiled at her aunt’s fussing over the festive display. A plate was chipped and one fork didn’t match the rest, but the jacquard tablecloth was pretty, autumn leaves cascading across an eggshell-colored background. It dressed up the plain wooden chairs.

  She carried over the pumpkin she’d purchased at the grocer’s and centered the puny thing on the table. “Poor thing. It needs something.”

  “Where’s Chris? We’ve got to have some Nat and Bing.”

  Her brother had gone to his room for his iPod, so they could listen to Christmas classics as they ate.

  In the living room, the TV blared a “Golden Girls” rerun. Honestly, Auntie Rob. Elena could recite each episode line by line. She walked over to their small TV and turned. “May I?”

  Her aunt shook her head, laughing. “It’s better than football.”

  “Don’t let Chris hear you say that.” She aimed the remote, and the room went blissfully quiet. The furnishings were modest yet artfully arranged, an earth-tone sofa, white and tan striped pillows, blue-glazed table lamps, a square cherry coffee table and underneath the furniture, a tan Jacobean area rug. Not as palatial as a certain lothario’s condo, but cozy.

  While the food aromas drifted into the living room, she straightened books and plants. Norman snoozed on the windowsill. She let out a sigh, loving the humble yet familiar furnishings. This might be their last Thanksgiving here.

  The buzzer to the bookstore’s front door rang.

  She tossed the remote on the sofa cushion. “Can’t they see the closed sign?”

  “It could be a customer getting an early start on Black Friday. Or it’s an encyclopedia salesman. Encyclopedias. God, I’m old.” Her aunt laughed, removing the wax paper from a butter stick. She placed the yellow stick on a crystal tray.

  “Auntie Rob. You tell Chris?”

  “Well, we’ve not sold yet.” Her aunt looked up at her. “I’ve been thinking, Leen. With a yard and all, we could try a therapy dog. They’re supposed to be wonderful for vets with PTSD.” She stopped, potholder on her hip. “How do you feel about me selling? Do you hate me for it?”

  Elena fought the heavy sensation in her chest and forced a smile. “Of course not.”

  “We won’t have to worry all the time. About customers, revenues, inventory.” She twisted the potholder in her hands. “What’s taking him so long? Christopher Matthew!”

  The buzzer sounded again.

  Eyebrows knitted together, Auntie Rob rubbed at her chin. “Maybe he got locked out.”

  Elena fought a sudden rise of panic, remembering the subzero afternoon they’d been locked out of their apartment by their mother. Chris had almost gotten frostbite.

  She went to look out the kitchen window. The only other exit was the back fire escape, which Chris accessed to get outside. Maybe he’d gone out to get something from the garage and got locked out. Not a far-fetched scenario. Her brother could do that on occasion.

  She hustled down the hall and searched all the rooms. “He’s not here.”

  Another buzzer ring.

  “Heavens. D’you think he’s—“ Her aunt pressed her hands together. “The wind chill’s in the teens.”

  Elena grabbed her coat and mittens and her phone. “I’ll check downstairs. Text me the moment he’s back.”

  Now the buzzer kept going off, as though someone glued a finger on the button.

  She dashed down the stairs, hand sliding over the banister, reaching the second-floor landing in seconds. She peered through the wide, wood-framed opening. Quiet and still.

  Once she got to the main retail floor, she flew past the reference bookshelves and the Truman Capote portrait.

  Her phone chirped, a text from Auntie Rob:

  He’s here.

  He was in the attic, grabbing old Christmas decorations.

  The buzzing at the door had to be a delivery or customer.

  As she neared the welcome mat, she froze.

  Hollywood shades on the crook of his nose, Nick Zaccardi loomed on the other side of the door, crouched over so he could peer inside. He pressed his palms together as though praying and mouthed PLEASE.

  Her heart rate zoomed, and she pulled in a long breath. Don’t you dare go into a trance over his shallow good looks. Remember that box of sin next to his bed.

  Through the glass, his audacious smile expanded.

  Finally, she opened the door, but only a crack. She blocked his entry with a foot.

  “See? Completely clothed this time.” Grinning, he lifted both arms. He was gorgeous, dressed in a gray tweedy sport coat with charcoal buttons, an ice blue tee underneath, dark wash jeans. The jacket tapered to his slim hips and emphasized his broad shoulders.

  “What do you want?”

  “You know, hostility becomes you. Your cheeks flush this pretty pink.” Legs planted a shoulder’s width apar
t, posture erect, he removed his sunglasses. Tucked them into his chest pocket. He tilted his dark head, his amber eyes gleaming mischief. “If I didn’t know you, I might say you’re discombobulated.”

  His steady eye contact made her heart flutter.

  “How many times did you practice saying ‘discombobulated’ in front of the mirror?”

  “Ah-ah-ah, Little Miss Mufson’s perfecting her smartass. I came to make a peace offering.” He pointed behind him to the sidewalk, where he’d placed an oval-shaped turkey roaster pan with a dome lid. “Pilgrims bearing pies.”

  “The colonists didn’t have butter or wheat flour to make crusts for pies.”

  “Note to self, read the history of civilization before seeing Elena.”

  “We already have a turkey.”

  “Who says a turkey’s under there? Well, are you going to invite me in, or do you want me to become the first human ice sculpture?”

  “Watch you freeze in place—“

  He leaned over to brush her lips with his, a quick kiss.

  It was so brief yet sensual, and packed a wallop. Her heart raced so hard that her ears pounded. That infernal lightheaded sensation was back, that un-tethered feeling, as though her insides and head floated upward on a hot air balloon. Her nipples hardened, and she felt a little numb between her legs. That fast. He did that to her—that fast. A lust speed record.

  He reached over to brush stray hairs from her forehead. His eyes went half-lidded, and his gaze lingered on her lips. “Come now, Elena, what happened wasn’t exactly one-sided. I was all over you.” His eye contact intensified. “And you, darling, were all over me.”

  They started again, the long stares, the quickening of breaths. Then she made a horrible mistake, her gaze dropped to his mouth, that sexy, irresistible mouth.

  “Elena—oh. Who’s this?”

  Nick drew up to his full height and tipped his head forward. “Hello, ma’am. Mrs. Lawry, I assume.”

  Her face relaxed, and she smiled. “You must be Nick. I recognize the voice. Elena Glynn, why didn’t you tell me he was so handsome?”

  She closed her eyes. Welcome, holiday nightmare.

  “It’s freezing out there,” her aunt said. “Come on in.”

  Too late to un-invite him. The vampire stepped over the threshold.

  He bent over, slid his big hands into the red oven mitts resting on the dome lid of the pot, and grasped the steel handles and lifted the pot to carry it inside. Elena darted outside to grab the Thanksgiving arrangement of sunset orange-colored roses, deep yellow Gerbera daisies and bright green leaves he’d brought as well.

  He sat the roaster on the top of the counter, on a potholder he’d had in a pocket.

  She smoothed a hand over her hair. God, couldn’t she have been wearing a fancy dress or something? He looked as though he was about to do a TV appearance.

  “These are for you, Mrs. Lawry.” He took the flowers from Elena and handed her the vibrant arrangement. “I would’ve brought Elena roses, but she might’ve thrown them at me.”

  Her aunt’s eyes were barely visible above the orange and yellow blooms and green leaves. “My, these are gorgeous. A perfect centerpiece for our table. To match Elena’s pumpkin.”

  “I would love to match her pumpkin,” Nick teased. “I brought a dish, too.” He removed the lid, and the delicious steam of an Italian sauce and cheese floated upward.

  “My word,” Aunt Robbie exclaimed, hand pressed to her chest. “He cooks, too.”

  “I’m not a cook, ma’am. It’s my mother’s recipe. Your niece spied her recipe box at my place, and I thought I’d try my hand at it.” His smile expanded. “I like trying my hand at all kinds of things.”

  The deep suggestive tone in his voice was unmistakable. Heat rushed to Elena’s cheeks as she recalled his hands trying to unhook her bra. She wanted to clobber him.

  “This is a lovely gesture, Nick. Are you headed out, then? Spending Thanksgiving with your family?”

  “Not exactly. My father’s opening a new hotel in Dubai.” He bowed and took a step toward the door. “Well. I’ve made my Pilgrim offering. I would’ve brought a peace pipe. . . ”

  “Pilgrims didn’t smoke peace pipes.”

  He looked at Aunt Robbie. “How do you live with her?”

  Her aunt searched under the cashier cabinets for the sturdy vase they used for the store’s special occasions. Her aunt loved fresh flowers. “You’re not spending Thanksgiving with your family?”

  “Likely a TV dinner.”

  Oh. That did it. He could squeeze sympathy from a turnip, when at least six harem girls were waiting at his palace, ready to fan him with feathers. “They’re not called TV dinners anymore.” Elena glared at him. “They’re frozen entrees.”

  He leaned closer to her to whisper. “No, that’s what I call you. And one day, I’m going to nuke you.” His eyes gleamed as a large cat’s, frankly sexual.

  She stepped back, her pulse racing.

  Her aunt drew to a stand, having located the vase, which she held with her right hand. She handed it to Elena to carry. “I know what we’ll do. You’ll have dinner with us.”

  A rascally Leprechaun grin expanded on his face.

  Elena’s temper got the best of her. “Oh, we wouldn’t want Mr. Zaccardi to go slumming.”

  His eyes glittered. “Your lovely niece never lacks for words.”

  “Elena, I don’t know why you wouldn’t invite him.” She looked up at Nick. “Normally, she’s the nicest, sweetest girl.”

  “I am not nice,” Elena gritted out.

  Nick’s lips pressed together, his mouth down-turned, as though stifling a laugh.

  “This’ll be fun,” her aunt said. “Chris is upstairs, minding the stove. He loved the hockey game, you know. He’ll be delighted to have another young man to talk to.”

  A half-eaten turkey. Crumbs on empty plates. Discarded cloth napkins dyed in a burnt orange. My stomach begged for mercy two dinner rolls ago.

  There we are, the four of us, digesting a fine meal. Her aunt smiles at me. Her brother gives me a fist-bump after I make a joke.

  Elena glares at me from across the table.

  Lucky me, she’s removed her apron to reveal a V-neck pink sweater and jeans, looking scrumptious. This sweater isn’t Sasquatch-sized, either, and I’m enjoying how she fills out those wool fibers. Her short dark hair flips at the ends; pearls dangle from her earlobes. Moments ago, when I saw a flick of her tongue, I almost knocked over my water glass.

  I lean back in the chair and stretch, which in a strange way signifies my degree of comfort. Probably because I’m going to own the building. Her aunt hasn’t actually finalized the paperwork, but she’ll sell.

  Their third-floor apartment is small, and I’m used to luxury suites, California king beds, heated tiles. My bathroom’s larger than their kitchen and living room combined. Still, it’s homey, lots of dark wood trim, decent furniture. Like many old buildings, the windows don’t bring in enough light, and yeah, there are more scratched parquet floors that need replacing. They keep it tidy, though. The tables shine from polish and there is an air freshener somewhere, something marketing geniuses call “spring’s first breath” or “mountain goat delight.”

  Still, the place droops like the hanging plant near the picture window. The building’s settled and taken the apartment with it: cracks in the ceiling, the floors uneven. That’ll mean foundation work. Now that I’m on my own, I must be careful with every expenditure, every investment. I won’t buy some crumbling heap.

  But I am comfortable here. Weird. Maybe it’s the food that makes me drowsy and craving a recliner. Having Elena sitting on my lap in the recliner. Having Elena naked, moaning, sitting on my lap in the recliner.

  My wandering gaze returns to the assortment of dishes on the table, and to the appetizing female sitting across from me. I wink at her and drain the water from my glass, wishing I’d brought us a bottle of Pinot Noir. That would complement the turkey. “Go
t something against wine?”

  The two women exchange looks and say nothing.

  She tugs on a sweater cuff and sips more water, clasping the glass stem so tightly that her knuckles are white. I turn to her aunt. “How about I do the dishes?”

  Elena sputters and rolls her eyes.

  I ignore her, because there’s a strategy here. Standing side-by-side over sudsy water will provide crucial one-on-one time. Have you considered my final offer? Good. Let’s ink signatures and finalize the deal.

  “You’ll do no such thing, after all the work you put into that lasagna. Honestly, Nick, it’s the best I’ve ever eaten.” Mrs. Lawry clears her throat and drinks some water. “And it was your mother’s recipe?”

  “Yes, ma’am. One of her many specialties, deep-dish lasagna.”

  “Please. Call me Robbie. And she died when you were—”

  “Twelve.”

  “That must’ve been devastating. With the lasagna. . . It’s like she’s here, in a way, isn’t it?” She reaches over to squeeze my hand.

  I nod and gulp more water. And that’s when I feel her, Mama greeting me after school, the faint slapping sound of her slippers as she rushed to hug me, her arms around me. The lilac soap that clung to her skin. The memory’s surprisingly intense, like an invasion. I lower my head and squint my eyes shut. I feel their eyes on me, and the awkward silence continues. Please, somebody change the subject. No one volunteers, so I take matters into my own hands. “Stupendous meal—Robbie.” I turn my head and suppress a sneeze. “Sorry.”

  Their damn cat has been AWOL, but now a striped gray periscope wanders around the chairs, triggering my sinuses.

  “Norman, you Houdini you.” Aunt Robbie rises, chair legs scraping. She dives toward the floor and scoops up the mewsance. “Back to my room you go. Everyone, I’ll start the dishes while Elena gives Nick a tour of the second and main floors. Chris, sweetie, you can keep me company.” Cat under her arm, she turns on a burner to a kettle.